papers, professionally done—not snapshots from paparazzi rats.”
“That kind of off-the-cuff stuff sells a lot of papers, Mike. You got a good business goin’. Don’t begrudge me mine.”
Right now, this late, there was no business. Lately the city had a habit of emptying out everywhere except the theater district, even before dark. Traffic on the rain-slicked street seemed steady but light.
“Listen,” I said, a hand on his shoulder, “I have a lead on that hit-and-runner of yours. How would you like to put his ass away for a long damn time?”
His whole face smiled. “Nothing better. What’s the deal, Mike?”
“I may have him identified.”
“You got a picture?”
“No, that’s the thing. The guy is a ghost where the papers are concerned. Hy Gardner tried every photo morgue in town looking for a pic.”
“Hy Gardner,” he sighed. The little man shook his head and his half-a-smile was bittersweet. “Them was the days.”
“Weren’t they just?” I patted his shoulder. “So now if this is the guy, Billy, you’re gonna have to put the finger on him. Look right at him, and not in a line-up, either, and say yay or nay. You up to that?”
He was grinning big. “If you’re at my side, Mike, I ain’t afraid.”
I glanced around. What few cars were going by kept right at the limit, taking advantage of the lack of competition, their headlight beams grainy with mist, chasing the pools of light they cast on the reflective surface. If it got any colder, they might get an icy surprise. Meanwhile, the sidewalks remained nearly empty but for the three of us in front of Billy’s comic-book-lined stand.
“You mind shutting down to do this, Billy?”
He frowned. It was against his principles to close up early.
I said, “You can’t do business in this rain, anyway, Billy my boy. We’ll grab a cab and go over to the guy’s place.”
His eyes widened. “What, he knows we’re comin’?”
“Oh, hell no.” I grinned. “It’ll be a big surprise. But he’ll let me in, don’t you worry.”
“You got that big .45 on you, man?”
“Always.”
“Safety off, one in the chamber?”
“You got it.”
“Then like somebody wise once said, ‘What me, worry?’”
Velda put a hand on Billy’s shoulder and said, “Thanks, Billy. This is very important.”
Billy lifted the stack of papers and hugged them again just as the dark blue Lincoln slowed at the light in the nearest northbound lane, right next to us. The driver leaned out the window as if to ask quick directions, and that was when I saw the ski mask, and I was going for the .45 in my raincoat pocket, an act that
damnit
slowed me down some, and Velda was clawing her purse for the .32, but the extended snout of the silenced automatic was already pointing out the window and three coughs, like a kid with asthma, told me I had put Velda and Billy in harm’s way, just by standing with them.
I had a complex thought that lasted a fraction of a second, and it was how I was going to die in the next instant, the light switch on my life going off, and my arrogance had done it, my belief that I was smarter and bigger and badder than anybody, but nobody is smarter and bigger and badder than three bullets rocketing their way at you.
Only the bullets didn’t hit me.
They hit Billy, thunking into those papers he was holding, missing his arms and chewing up newsprint, dotting an I on a headline, the power of those tiny guided missiles taking the little man down onto the pavement in a pile, armful of papers scattering, as faces on magazines smiled and looked everywhere but at him.
And the Lincoln was gone, jumping the light, flashing a license plate spattered with mud on a vehicle otherwise spotless. Other cars were going through an intersection the shooter was on the other side of, and the .45 in my hand couldn’t blow him a kiss without risking collateral damage.
Anyway, I was distracted by Velda, who never got her gun out, doing something I’d
“That kind of off-the-cuff stuff sells a lot of papers, Mike. You got a good business goin’. Don’t begrudge me mine.”
Right now, this late, there was no business. Lately the city had a habit of emptying out everywhere except the theater district, even before dark. Traffic on the rain-slicked street seemed steady but light.
“Listen,” I said, a hand on his shoulder, “I have a lead on that hit-and-runner of yours. How would you like to put his ass away for a long damn time?”
His whole face smiled. “Nothing better. What’s the deal, Mike?”
“I may have him identified.”
“You got a picture?”
“No, that’s the thing. The guy is a ghost where the papers are concerned. Hy Gardner tried every photo morgue in town looking for a pic.”
“Hy Gardner,” he sighed. The little man shook his head and his half-a-smile was bittersweet. “Them was the days.”
“Weren’t they just?” I patted his shoulder. “So now if this is the guy, Billy, you’re gonna have to put the finger on him. Look right at him, and not in a line-up, either, and say yay or nay. You up to that?”
He was grinning big. “If you’re at my side, Mike, I ain’t afraid.”
I glanced around. What few cars were going by kept right at the limit, taking advantage of the lack of competition, their headlight beams grainy with mist, chasing the pools of light they cast on the reflective surface. If it got any colder, they might get an icy surprise. Meanwhile, the sidewalks remained nearly empty but for the three of us in front of Billy’s comic-book-lined stand.
“You mind shutting down to do this, Billy?”
He frowned. It was against his principles to close up early.
I said, “You can’t do business in this rain, anyway, Billy my boy. We’ll grab a cab and go over to the guy’s place.”
His eyes widened. “What, he knows we’re comin’?”
“Oh, hell no.” I grinned. “It’ll be a big surprise. But he’ll let me in, don’t you worry.”
“You got that big .45 on you, man?”
“Always.”
“Safety off, one in the chamber?”
“You got it.”
“Then like somebody wise once said, ‘What me, worry?’”
Velda put a hand on Billy’s shoulder and said, “Thanks, Billy. This is very important.”
Billy lifted the stack of papers and hugged them again just as the dark blue Lincoln slowed at the light in the nearest northbound lane, right next to us. The driver leaned out the window as if to ask quick directions, and that was when I saw the ski mask, and I was going for the .45 in my raincoat pocket, an act that
damnit
slowed me down some, and Velda was clawing her purse for the .32, but the extended snout of the silenced automatic was already pointing out the window and three coughs, like a kid with asthma, told me I had put Velda and Billy in harm’s way, just by standing with them.
I had a complex thought that lasted a fraction of a second, and it was how I was going to die in the next instant, the light switch on my life going off, and my arrogance had done it, my belief that I was smarter and bigger and badder than anybody, but nobody is smarter and bigger and badder than three bullets rocketing their way at you.
Only the bullets didn’t hit me.
They hit Billy, thunking into those papers he was holding, missing his arms and chewing up newsprint, dotting an I on a headline, the power of those tiny guided missiles taking the little man down onto the pavement in a pile, armful of papers scattering, as faces on magazines smiled and looked everywhere but at him.
And the Lincoln was gone, jumping the light, flashing a license plate spattered with mud on a vehicle otherwise spotless. Other cars were going through an intersection the shooter was on the other side of, and the .45 in my hand couldn’t blow him a kiss without risking collateral damage.
Anyway, I was distracted by Velda, who never got her gun out, doing something I’d
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